Parting Gift
by MoonlightSalsa
Summary: Some insight into Lil' Arturo's life with his father before living with the Gangreen Gang, including how he came to own his most prized possession: his switchblade comb, Maria Conchita Teresa Rosalita.


The rain was pouring down and it was pitch black outside. The single lightbulb did little to cut through the darkness, but it wasn't like there was much to see anyway. The two people who resided in the dingy one-room apartment they could barely afford to keep paying the rent for were only focused on each other. There were, after all, bigger issues at hand than cheap lighting.

"Macho" Arturo de la Guerra had really screwed up this time. He knew he'd been seen running from the bank he'd robbed with his accomplice, and it was only a matter of time before the police descended upon him.

What stung the most was how little he'd been left with. His accomplice had been the one holding the sack with the money, and he'd disappeared into the stormy night, sack in tow. Macho had only managed to grab a handful of fives. Twenty five dollars total. That could buy them dinner for a night, with leftovers for breakfast the next morning if they were careful. One meal. Two at most. It was pathetic.

The worst part was that he would be leaving his son again.

After his last stint in prison some months ago, Macho got better at concealing his identity, hiding any evidence that could tie him to all the recent robberies and break-ins. Sometimes he worked with other more experienced criminals, other times he operated alone. He needed the money because he and his son needed food, clothes, a place to live. He wanted his son to stay in school, to have a better adult life than his old man.

All of this would unravel when the cops would come. They would take him away, look at his record. They might link him with all the robberies he'd taken so much care into planning to avoid getting caught. If they went looking for proof long enough, they would eventually find it. A stray hair. A colleague selling him out. He'd be thrown back in jail, but for how long this time, he didn't know.

That was what scared him the most. The last time he was in prison, he remained there for a month. His son only made it through without him because he had his friends, no, his gang watching out for him. That was all well and good, but Macho worried that this gang would be a bad influence. They often commited petty crimes, stuff like vandalising buildings and harassing people. Macho didn't like that because A, crimes should have some sort of payoff, preferably money, and B, his son shouldn't be exposed to that any more than he already was.

Macho especially didn't like the leader, Ace. Whiny, nasally-voiced punk who thought he was hot stuff. But he had been there for his son, Macho gave him that much.

Macho now stared at his son, Arturo de la Guerra, often known as Lil' Arturo, who gazed back at him with the one wide eye that wasn't covered by his bangs. Looking into his innocent yet frightened expression, Macho felt the guilt rising up like bile in his chest. Twelve was far too young an age to be living on the streets.

"Y-you said you w-wouldn't get caught a-again..." Arturo said, his bottom lip quivering.

"I know. I screwed up this time, son."

Arturo began shaking, but whether it was from the cold or the fear of being on the streets again, Macho didn't know.

"You s-said I won't have to g-go back on the s-streets again!"

"I know! I'm sorry!"

Arturo sniffed, as if he was trying not to cry.

"You have your friends, don't you, son? Can't they look after you again?" Macho knew the the gang had pretty crappy home lives as well, but they were still better than leaving Arturo on the streets by himself.

Arturo sniffed again. "They're not really my friends. They call me Shorty and make fun of my height."

Macho sighed.

"Besides," Arturo continued, shifting closer, "I don't want you to leave me, Papi." The "papi" came out weakly, despite him having quite a deep voice for someone his age. Macho's heart almost broke when he heard it.

Macho reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the most valuable thing the two owned. He held it out to his son. "I want you to have her," he said.

Arturo's eyes widened when he saw it.

"You w-want me to take M-Maria?" He stammered.

It was Macho's switchblade comb, which a six-year old Arturo had lovingly named Maria Conchita Teresa Rosalita, after characters from a film they saw the last time they visited a movie theatre. He loved having his hair combed with it every morning and night.

"Yes. Take her. She's yours now."

Arturo gently took hold of the comb and put it in his pocket. He then spread his arms and hugged his dad.

Macho swallowed. This was going to be the hardest goodbye he's ever said.

It was also going to have to be a quick one, because he could hear running footsteps and shouts of "police!" from two floors below.

Macho took the stolen twenty five dollars out of his pocket and shoved it into Arturo's hands.

"You'd better go," he said, pushing his son towards the window, opening it and lifting him out and onto the fire escape.

"Goodbye, son," he said before the police burst through the door. Arturo took the hint and ran down the slippery metal stairs.

Macho was handcuffed and dragged through the door. He shot one last look at the open window and the rain blowing in, and cursed himself.

How could he let himself get into such a horrible situation? All he wanted was for his son to have a normal life as possible.

Was that really so much to ask?

Arturo ran for several minutes before he ducked into an alleyway and lay on the ground, curled up beside the wall of a building.

His life had fallen apart once more. He felt so helpless. He knew he should be looking for the gang, but he wanted his dad back.

He missed him already.

Arturo buried his face in his arms and hands and began to sob loudly as the rain drenched him through his clothes.

He stayed in that position until Ace ran by after evading the police (after they chased him for vandalising the subway station) and found him, figured out what had happened, then more or less dragged him back to the ramshackle hut in the Townsville dump.

Then he stood in the corner, dripping wet and shivering, listening to Ace yell at Snake to give up his extra mattress unless he wanted to get punched hard.

Twenty minutes after that he lay on his "new" mattress, stripped of his wet clothes and huddled under one of Big Billy's shirts (as they had no spare blankets) with Maria clutched tightly in his grasp, thinking about how this had been the worst night of his life.

That was two years ago.

Arturo was now fourteen, he had gotten the others to stop calling him Shorty, and now spent his days terrorising citizens, spraying graffiti everywhere and brushing his hair with Maria.

He thought about his dad sometimes, still. He wondered if he was doing alright, in prison, and when he'll be out again. He still missed him.

He wondered if he'll ever end up joining his old man in prison. Despite having broken the law quite a bit and receiving plenty of beat-downs from the Powerpuff Girls, he'd never seen the inside of a prison cell. He didn't know whether that was good or bad. His dad did always tell him to stay out of prison, so...?

Arturo also kept a tin under his mattress. Inside this tin was money, the twenty five dollars his dad had given him, along with loose coins and spare change he'd picked up over the past two years. This tin and its contents would be his life's work. It was his nest egg, his second most prized possession after Maria.

He often daydreamed of raising enough money to buy a house in the nice part of town for him and his gang to live in. He hoped that one day, he could pay for a weeks worth of food and power without having to resort to outright theft.

Because if there's one thing he learned from his years of living on the streets, a leaky apartment and a crappy hut in the literal dumps, it's that the world is very unkind to poor people.


End file.
